


The Other Dorian

by KaerWrites



Series: Redcliff Amulet [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M, Multiple/Alternate Realities, time travel-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 22:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4280052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaerWrites/pseuds/KaerWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dorian went to sleep, it was in the arms of someone who loved him, in a world where he had friends, support, and happiness. When he next wakes it is to find himself in a world where all that is gone. Companion fic to The Other Inquisitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Amulet

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion fic to The Other Inquisitor and is meant to take place alongside it. If you have not read that fic, I'm afraid parts of this one might be somewhat confusing, and I encourage you to look it up.

Rellana Lavellan had always known she was destined for greatness.

It had always been painfully apparent to her, and even as a child, certain things had always rankled – how poor, how small, how dirty her clan was. How quick they were to smile and offer peace with the shems who crossed their paths. There were clans, the Keeper claimed, where a human intruding too close would be killed on sight. Clans that had more pride than Lavellan, it seemed to Rellana. She vowed that when _she_ was the Keeper, things would change.

Keeper Deshanna had merely smiled and told her she would see things different when she was older. Peace with the shems kept the clan safe.

Rellana smiled at her reflection in the full length mirror before her. Powdered and decorated, glistening with silk and jewels, she was the very image of what her people should have been.

If the Keeper had been right about one thing it had been this – the shems had their uses, after all. Never would Rellana have dreamed that it would be so easy, that everything she wanted would be handed to her in such a way. All she’d had to do was pretend to be their Herald, pay empty lip service to their Maker, and in return they showered her with the love and admiration she had always deserved.

She would use them, yes, for as long as she could. The breach was incidental, Corypheus but a nagging fly. With human armies and human riches, Rellana would see Arlathan restored.

And anyone who stood in her way would quickly be shown the error of their mistake.

“Detain the mage,” Rellana ordered, lifting her chin. She was regal, the image of the queen – the empress – the _goddess_ she was meant to be.

It was satisfying to watch through the mirror’s reflection as her soldiers moved to block the way of the traitor who had so erroneously thought to besmirch her glorious reign.

“Darling,” the prisoner said. “Did we forget out tearful goodbyes? A shame, that.”

Dorian Pavus – how she had loathed him, from the very beginning. Glib and sneaky, arrogant, insolent, he was always butting his nose into places it didn’t belong, convinced he knew better – always questioning her decisions, her leadership, giving unasked-for advice, undermining her authority at every opportunity.

It was laughable that he thought she would allow him to simply walk away. Every action she took or failed to take would send an irrefutable message to the thousands of eyes that now watched her every move. His pitiful hurt feelings could not be permitted to further chip away at the majesty of the legacy she was building.

“I know you are ever fond of your dramatics,” Pavus said. “I’m certain it’s a marvelous sendoff you have planned, but I’m afraid I simply haven’t the time.”

She felt her cheeks burn as her temper rose with a hot flash of embarrassment and fury. Typical of the insufferable bastard. The future of her people rode on Rellana’s shoulders. She held in her palm the first clear shot at power an elf had been given in _centuries_. She was going to remake the world –

And he saw fit to humiliate her in her very courtyard, before the very shems she saw herself leading. The fool. The _utter_ fool.

“You’re really doing it, then?” she demanded. “Abandoning the Inquisition like a coward? Running away because your feelings were hurt?” she never would have suffered his presence for as long as she had if not for the fact – oh, how it _rankled_ – that he was simply a better mage than her. More talented, more creative, better trained.

Rellana despised him.

She also needed him.

“Ah,” Pavus said. “But we discussed this, my sweet, and you were rather loquacious concerning your feelings on the matter. At any rate, the unfortunate fact remains that your presence, your decisions, your very face makes me positively vomitus.”

Rellana could feel the heat, face flushing scarlet before the insults of this treacherous snake of a man. She could not back down, not to a Tevinter, not before all these shemlen! Herald or no, her power, their respect – it was all so fragile, so tenuous.

“You would rather see _me_ in chains, I presume?” she demanded, hands fists at her sides. The chain of the ugly necklace she had been playing with previously bit painfully into the meat of her palm, grounding her in her anger. Yes – the spoils of war, finery, riches brought from Redcliff. For her. Herald. Inquisitor. She would show him the power he was so cavalier in mocking.

Pavus pressed a hand to his heart and gave a derisive little bow.

“My detestable little dewdrop, it is my preference not to see you at all,” he said. He turned once more to leave – so proud, so fine, so infuriating.

The necklace swung from where it hung in her hand, reflecting green light. Rellana struggled – fury, embarrassment, even jealousy warring within her.

“Seize him!” she cried, desperate. He must not undermine her power. She was too important for this.

She felt alive – elated. The guards didn’t hesitate to follow her order. She, a Dalish, and Pavus, a magister of the Imperium, and the guards moved to _her_ whim. She watched with a thrill as they wrestled the insufferable bastard to the ground, grabbed his bag from his greedy, grasping hands.

“Documents, Inquisitor,” one of the soldiers offered her a thick sheaf of papers pulled from the bag. His expression was eager. Worshipful. _Yes_.

Rellana felt herself recovering from the earlier humiliation. “Planning to sell Inquisition secrets to Tevinter, are we?”

“Those are travel documents!”

“A convenient excuse.”

“Read them, then, if you have brains enough in your head to understand!”

Rellana took a deep breath. Yes – more insults – but the guards were _hers_.

“Take him into custody,” she ordered, triumphant.

“Inquisitor!” Commander Rutherford, drawn from his office by the commotion below, approached at a run, slowing as he drew near. Rellana smiled at him when he looked her way, then at Dorian, his hand hovering, unsure, over the hilt of his sword. “Release that man,” he told the guards, as if he had the right. They were _hers._

“Do no such thing!” Rellana ordered. She could feel her desperation rising again as the guards disobeyed, as the commander stepped forward to help Pavus to his feet.

It wasn’t the first time he had pushed against her power. He would likely be happier were she an impotent figurehead, a bauble to decorate the Inquisition.

“That man is a Tevinter spy, commander,” Rellana warned him, pointing. The amulet in her hand swayed with the motion, glinting green. “Execute him!”

There was no missing the shake of the commander’s head, the motion he made to indicate his men should stand down.

“Inquisitor,” he said, as if she might have missed his treachery. “I must recommend we all go inside and examine the evidence before we proceed with this kind of decision. We don’t want it said the Inquisition executes innocent men without a trial.”

Rellana felt her lip curl. “He’s never been innocent a day in his life,” she spat.

“Release him into my custody,” Commander Rutherford advised. “I will personally see to it he does not disappear before facing your judgment.”

He sounded too calm, like he was talking down a madwoman. Rellana lifted her chin.

“I judge him now!” she proclaimed. “Under my authority as Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, chosen by the _Maker_ , I find this man guilty of treason and I order his execution. Now.”

She felt thrilled, proud, exercising her authority in such a way that no one would dare question it again. The scattered gasps around the courtyard were gratifying.

Cullen took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, and said, calmly, “My men will not.”

“Inquisitor,” Pavus began slowly. He swallowed. He looked _terrified_. But it was too late, too public, to back down now. Not with her own commander openly defying her.

“If you and your men are so incompetent, commander,” Rellana seethed, “I’ll see to the task, myself!”

She gathered her power, a wave of Force to knock them back, leave them flat on their faces, where they rightly should be.

But something went wrong.

The amulet she held – it _reacted_. It began to glow green, then flared a bright, blinding white.

 


	2. Ryn

“Nothing too pressing, I hope?”

Ryn watched the messenger retreat back down the stairs with a frown. There was a particular, concentrated look he wore – brows knit, gorgeous mouth pressed, gaze focused inward as he processed a problem - that Dorian was particularly fond of. He wore that expression now, his lovely long fingers absently stroking the note he had been brought, and he gave no indication he had even heard his lover’s words.

Splayed luxuriously in the Inquisitor’s bed, nudity just barely concealed beneath a fold of the blankets, Dorian cleared his throat. “ _Amatus_ ,” he called.

Ryn gave himself a shake. His expression cleared, and he looked back to the mage with a smile, tucking the note into the pocket of his robe. “I suppose I really should feel sorry for him, but they really need to learn not to come up here without knocking,” he said. His hands fell to the belt sash, neatly plucking at the quick, loose knot he had tied for the benefit of the extremely red faced runner who had brought the message.

“Please don’t tell me you have to go down to the War Room.”

“No,” Ryn said, “It’s nothing that couldn’t have waited until morning.”

“Tsk, and yet they saw fit to disturb our debauchery nevertheless. How thoughtless. It isn’t as if you’ve an entire political movement to run.” Even had the messenger not had the poor luck to walk in on the Inquisitor and his Tevinter lover enthusiastically engaged in the climax of what had been a very lovely evening, the state of the room would have given their activities away quite plainly. “Well, I suppose it isn’t every day one gets to witness Andraste’s own holy herald riding – “

“Dorian,” Ryn chuckled, folding the robe over the back of a chair before he climbed back into the bed. “I’m beginning to think you enjoy getting caught.”

“I won’t lie. There is a certain degree of satisfaction to be gained from it.” He shifted into a more comfortable position as the Inquisitor settled down at his side, dragging the thick blankets over them to protect against the unholy southern chill. The Dalish archer fit so snugly, so perfectly at his side, his body a small furnace. Dorian let himself be lulled by the heat of him, the calm confidence of his presence, the silence of the room broken only by the crackle of the fire.

Ryn sighed softly, and Dorian felt him relaxing, letting go of his duties and responsibilities, his worries and fears, even that ridiculously overblown work drive of his that made him such an effective leader.

“You know,” Dorian said at last, breaking the silence. “If it’s all the same to you, I was thinking I might just…well, stay here. For the night. Ah. Thoughts?”

Ryn was quiet for so long Dorian wondered if perhaps he had fallen asleep. Though the mage had made the suggestion lightly, he felt his heartbeat pick up, nerves tensing. Ryn lifted his head.

“You want to stay the night? The whole night?” Ryn asked.

“Well, it isn’t as if I suggested I move in, is it? It’s a terribly long walk back to my rooms, that’s all. And they’ll be sinfully cold by now.”

“Oh, is that all?”

“ _Amatus_ – “

Ryn smiled and leaned forward, pressing his lips firmly to the mage’s, arm snaking around him, pulling him with him as he laid back against the mattress.

“You - ?” Dorian asked, out of breath, when he managed to pull away. “You want me to, then?” He’d never stayed the entire night before, though Ryn had, on occasion, slept over in Dorian’s quarters. Still, asking had been – well, the lad _said_ he cared, but it couldn’t really be true, could it? Asking to stay opened up a certain vulnerability Dorian remained leery of exploring.

Still, the way Ryn smiled settled that worrying voice every time without fail.

“Want you to?” he asked. “I insist on it.”

“Is that so?”

“Well,” Ryn grinned. “As you said, it would be a _terribly_ long walk back.”

Dorian smiled as he kissed him. They were both smiling, arms reaching, bodies warming to the other’s touch. It was like some kind of dream, an impossible fantasy come true, nights spent up in the Inquisitor’s room, making love luxuriously, unhurried, delighting in each other’s body, sharing a kind of intimacy Dorian had come to expect never to experience. Far removed from the quick dirty trysts and the debauched wine-filled haze of other rooms, other partners, Dorian fell asleep with the Inquisitor in his arms, sated and safe and convinced he had never once been half so happy in his life.

He awoke in a dungeon cell.


	3. Prison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted early since the last one was so short. We're going strange places with this, folks.

“He keeps demanding to see the Inquisitor.”

“And his attitude? His bearing? His manner?”

The guards hesitated, glancing at one another. “Frantic, your worship,” one answered at last. “Worried. He…”

“He sicked up a few times, when he first woke,” the other said. “Stumbled to the bars, kept calling a name. Uh,” he shifted, cleared his throat, and then attempted to mimic the voice of the prisoner. “ _What has happened? Where is he? Where is the Inquisitor?_ ” as Rellana continued to frown at him, he fell silent, shifted. “Your worship?”

Rellana watched the amulet that dangled on a chain between her fingers, let it spin, stopped it, let it spin once again, her thoughts working quickly.

The longer she remained silent, the more uncomfortable the pair of guards grew.

“…your worship?” one of them ventured again, finally.

Across from her, Solas lifted a hand to his mouth, delicately clearing his throat.

Rellana looked up. “Thank you,” she said. “Return to your posts.”

The Inquisitor’s office was silent for several long moments after they left. Rellana could feel Solas’s gaze on her – patient and mirthful, wise and intelligent. That gaze of his that seemed to know everything and say nothing, infuriating and intriguing, both at once. He made her feel like a child at times with that gaze, and yet somehow she found herself still seeking his approval. The other elf held far too much influence on her and she knew it, but every time she resolved herself to do something about it, it…didn’t happen.

She released a long breath and caught the spinning amulet, turning it in her palm to trace the long thin line of the crack that had formed in its surface after the events in the courtyard.

“You have thoughts,” she said at last.

Solas chuckled. “I often have thoughts. Many, I suspect, are guilty of the same.”

Rellana rolled her eyes upward, frowning at him. “What you said before – you’re certain of it?”

“The man below in your cells is not the man who has served your Inquisition. Yes, I am certain. The stories of the guards merely confirm it.” He smiled, inclining his head. “You have walked the Fade in your dreams; surely the idea of a reality separate from our own is not beyond the realm of possibility to you.”

“O-of course not,” Rellana said, perhaps too quickly. Solas smiled again, in approval. She felt her cheeks heat.

The events that had taken place in the courtyard were still overwhelming. The sheer amount of power had been devastating. Several of her servants and soldiers had lost their feet, thrown around by the sudden howling winds. It had seemed like the end of the world.

And when it cleared there had been only Pavus, unconscious on the ground.

Rellana had struggled to her feet and grabbed up one of the solder’s swords. She had been terrified, and furious, and able to think of nothing more than killing Pavus. He was clearly more dangerous than she’d dreamed, she’d thought. Whatever he had done, it couldn’t be allowed to happen again.

Solas had been the one to stop her.

“What do we do?” Rellana asked. She hated that she had to ask, hated that she didn’t know.

But Solas’s smile grew and she felt his approval like the welcome warm rays of the sun. “Let us go speak with him,” he suggested.

\---

It was the cold that woke him.

Somewhere over the course of the night Dorian’s sweet warm slumber had turned cold. Ryn must have shifted away or been woken to attend to something. The fire must have gone out. Teeth chattering, half aware, Dorian reached for the blankets, or his lover, whichever he found first, and found – nothing.

Dorian didn’t have an easy way to process what he found when he opened his eyes.

Instead of Ryn’s large luxurious bed, he was on a thin mat stuffed with straw. It was dingy and gray, stained with vile dark things, and it _stank_.

He sat up slowly, carefully, and the world spun around him. His stomach did flipflops. He tried to rise, barely found his feet, and somehow made it to the dented, chipped chamber pot in the corner before he quite thoroughly and loudly threw up the entirety of his last three or four meals.

He was shaking as he sat back on his heels, and the hand he lifted to wipe at his mouth trembled violently. He looked at his surroundings without comprehending what he was seeing. Bars. He was in a cell. Guards playing cards at a table nearby. A lamp emitting a low, greasy glow. He would have thought himself dreaming, were it not for the sudden pounding ache in his skull, and this sick acidic burn in his throat. Dorian tore his hands through his hair, wracking his brain, desperate for any hint or clue as to how he had come to be here, but all he could see was Ryn’s smile, the warmth in his eyes, the way the trappings of the Inquisitor fell away the moment they were alone.

Ryn –

“ _Ryn!”_ he was on his feet quicker than he would have thought possible, gripping the bars to keep from losing his feet. “Ryn!” he screamed out his lover’s name, trying desperately to see into the other cells, but finding no trace of him.

One of the guards placed a card and threw the hard heel of a slice of bread at him. “Keep it down, Pavus.”

He shook the bars as if his cage would somehow open, wracking his brain for the fellow’s name. Dorian knew a good number of the servants and soldiers of Skyhold, but he couldn’t place either of these men and their sneaky, rattish faces. “Where is he?” he demanded. “Where’s Ryn? What have you done? What happened?”

“You know anyone named Ryn, Earl?”

“Sounds like a knife ear name,” the other guard chuckled. He pulled two more cards from the stack.

“Where’s the Inquisitor?” Dorian demanded. “What have you bastards done with him?”

“Inquisitor’s upstairs. Doing whatever the Void Inquisitors do,” the first guard snorted and spat in Dorian’s direction. “Who d’ya think put you in here, Pavus? You’ve had this coming a long time.”

Dorian reeled. His legs tried to give out, and his grip on the bars was all that kept him from crashing to the ground.

It took him several tries to speak. “What – what are you talking about?”

“Like you don’t know,” said the second guard. “You should be on your knees thanking the Maker they didn’t kill you on the spot, after the shit you pulled.”

“Careful,” chuckled the first. “I heard he likes it on his knees.”

They laughed. Dorian turned his back on them and sank down to the ground, hardly noticing. _What had he done_? His memory was completely blank. He jerked at the sound of a door opening, turning, frantic, but instead of Ryn it was only a pair of guards.

“Here to relieve you,” one said. “Inquisitor wants to see you.”

“I was just about to win this hand!”

“Guess we’ll call it a drawl.”

“Fuck you, Earl, this always happens!”

Their squabbling voices carried them away down the hall. The new pair of guards took their places. Dorian felt sick again.

Ryn –

After a while he pulled himself to his feet. “What happened?” he demanded in a croak. “What did I – what did I do? Where is the Inquisitor? Is he – Ryn is alright, isn’t he?” Dorian never would have hurt him. This was some – it was some mistake. It wasn’t – this couldn’t be – _Maker,_ what - ?

The guards ignored him as if he didn’t exist.

Eventually he began to feel steady enough on his feet to pace, but his mind, always so quick and clever, couldn’t begin to piece together the pieces of what had happened. Try as he might he could remember nothing after making love with Ryn, falling asleep in each other’s arms, watching the smile on the Dalish lad’s lips.

Giving up on searching for memories that weren’t there, he instead began trying to piece together the things he did know. The guards hadn’t seemed worried or distressed. Dorian knew that if he had done something that, however inadvertently, threatened or harmed Ryn, any soldier in Skyhold would be slobbering for his head. Never mind the fact that he would never hurt him, it was some relief to assure himself the guards demeanor must mean Ryn wasn’t dying somewhere out of reach.

What _had_ he done, then? He and Ryn had their spats, like any couple, but he couldn’t imagine a single scenario where the Inquisitor would get so mad as to abuse his power and lock Dorian up for some innocent squabble. Ryn didn’t even let actual prisoners rest too long in Skyhold’s cells. He preferred to pass judgement quickly, and with a leniency that made Leliana wince.

It struck him as odd but unremarkable when he heard a door open again. Surely it was too early for another guard change. He turned as a soldier came running into the room, grabbing the cards from the guards.

“Hey! What do - ?”

“The Inquisitor’s coming!” he hissed, anxious.

The two were on their feet in an instant, hurrying, stashing their snacks and their cards, wiping crumbs from the table, putting their helmets on. They turned, standing at strict attention at the sound of footfall on the stairs.

The woman who walked into the dungeon looked like a delicate glass doll, if people bothered to make dolls like that of elves. She wore a silk gown and a towering crown, her hair a dark mass of curls and her lips a bright, pretty red. Dorian had never in his life seen her before, he was sure of it.

“Y-your worship!”

“Worship!”

Her eyes fixed on Dorian for a long moment as he stared, and he thought he saw something there, some flicker of – amusement? Triumph? – before she looked back to the guards.

“Leave,” she said.

They hesitated. “But, your worship - ?”

“Are you questioning me?”

“Rest assured, gentlemen, I will see to our beloved Herald’s safety,” Solas assured, entering the room behind the woman, strolling casually, relaxed, his hands behind his back and a small smile on his lips.

“ _Go_ ,” the woman said, making a dismissive gesture with her hand. Dorian’s legs nearly gave out as he caught an all-too-familiar flicker of green on her palm. As she turned to look him over again, he found himself gripping the bars so hard his knuckles turned white.

“What,” he demanded, “Have you done with him?”

“Hm,” she tilted her head, regarding him, then glanced at Solas as he strode up beside her.

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” the other elf asked. He sounded as if barely capable of containing his excitement. He was smiling as he approached the bars. “Hello, Dorian.”

“I don’t know how you managed to transfer the anchor,” Dorian seethed slowly, softly, “But if you have harmed one hair on his head, I swear to you by all that is holy _you will not live to regret it_.”

“It is advisable you dispense with such inane threats,” Solas said, as the elven woman at his side flushed scarlet and opened her mouth to argue. “You are in there, after all, and we are out here. It is your Inquisitor you speak of with such fervor, is it not?”

“Please – just let me see him.” The ragged tone to Dorian’s voice no doubt further weakened the legitimacy of his threats.

“That I’m afraid I cannot do,” Solas said. “But rest assured, I have no reason to believe he’s come to any harm. If you will but humor me while I ask some questions, I believe we can get to the bottom of this whole situation.”

Dorian breathed out slowly, his eyes flickering to the strange woman. He noted again her elaborate clothing and hair, her important manner, the pride and arrogance in her eyes. He’d certainly dealt with enough people like her in his life to know what he was looking at. She held a bit of costume jewelry in her hand, thumb rubbing absently at the chain as she returned his scrutiny.

Dorian pulled his gaze back to Solas, and the elf nodded in response, as if Dorian had somehow given him the reaction he had expected.

“Now,” Solas said. “Can you clarify for me the events which led to your stay here? What is the last thing you remember?”

 _Ryn’s smile. The warmth in his eyes. The taste of his lips._ “I was in bed,” Dorian answered tightly.

Solas hmmed softly. “In bed. Not in the courtyard, then?”

“No.”

“And this lady beside me – do you know who this dear woman is?”

“I’ve never seen her in my life.”

“Interesting.”

“What’s so _interesting_ about it? What am I doing here? Where’s Ryn?”

Solas was quiet for a moment. Dorian knew him well enough to see that he was thinking very deeply. The expression he wore usually followed a long day on the march, when they had been sniping at each other for hours and he had finally cooked up a _really_ stunning insult.

“Dorian, I am afraid there has been a terrible accident. One which has left your Inquisitor – this Ryn, I take it? – in terrible danger. A man may even now be on his way to kill him.”

“Kill – who - ?”

“Why – you, Dorian. You’re going to kill him. Unless we can act quickly.” Solas touched a hand to the lock on the bars, and with a flare of magic the door sprang open. He stepped back, motioning for Dorian to come out. “You’re going to want to sit down for this, my friend.”


	4. Discussion

The elf who called himself Solas could still feel the pull of magic around the amulet even as it lay cracked and dull and unremarkable in Rellana’s hand. Like the warmth emanating from a fire he could feel how time and reality and the very essence of the mortal plane shivered in the air around the little trinket, ebbing and flowing, struggling to mend some invisible tear. It was not dissimilar to the feeling a Rift put off, and though it was smaller in size, it _felt_ much more substantial. A tiny hole, a thimbleful of the Fade, escaping with every second.

Somehow, quite accidentally, that little piece of otherwise unremarkable jewelry had torn into reality, punched a hole directly through the Fade to the other side and swapped one mouthy, self-absorbed, pain in the ass mage for another.

All of his years and experience and uncommon expertise notwithstanding, Solas found he was still struggling to wrap his mind around it. There was potential there – that much was plain. There was something to be done with this sort of power. And perhaps – yes, perhaps there was use to be made of it.

That was the hope, in any case.

Pavus was pale and bewildered seated by the fire in one of the Inquisition’s lesser sitting rooms, struggling to digest the wild story he had been fed. An alternate version of himself, mad, murderous, who had been plotting to kill their holy herald to regain favor with the Imperium and who, when caught, had activated the strange power of the amulet and fled to another world, presumably leaving _this_ unfortunate doppelganger to suffer the consequences.

It was a preposterous tale, and it banked too heavily on the other mage’s disorientation, his fear, and his concern for his Inquisitor, but given the amount of time they’d had and the information available it had been the best Solas could do. He didn’t need this Dorian clashing with Rellana as the other had. More, if Solas was to have any hope at all of repairing the amulet, he was going to need help. Dorian Pavus, among other things, was a talented and clever mage. Solas hoped his motivation to get home would truly strike something brilliant. The potential – this could fix _everything_.

“Where did you get it?” Pavus asked at last, his voice a rough rasp. It was a surprising question, springing from the previous silence. His eyes were on the amulet Rellana held.

“A box of refuse – trinkets and whatnot our soldiers recovered from the mess in Redcliff.” Solas watched Pavus carefully as he spoke. It would be beyond foolish to assume this man the same as the one who had left. “Clearly the previous owner was unaware of what it was he possessed,” Solas continued after a moment.

“No,” Pavus said. “He knew.”

Solas felt an eerie, alarmed thrill rush through him, the sudden certainty of an important puzzle piece clicking into place. “You’ve seen something like this before?” he realized.

Pavus nodded and reached for the object with a polite “May I?” Rellana waited for a nod from Solas before handing it over, and once Pavus had it, she sat back, chewing a thumbnail, watching with uncertainty. To most she would look like a doll, empty-headed, pretty, and proud, but Solas could see her mind at work, busy sorting out the situation, just as his was.

Pavus turned the amulet over carefully in his hands, tracing the crack that had formed down its surface with his index finger. “Alexius and I developed this,” he said at last, softly. He looked up. “I take it by your surprise you did not encounter my mentor’s…enterprise?”

Solas closed his mouth. “No,” he said after a moment.

Pavus nodded, as if he had expected as much. “Alexius could never get it to work,” he said. “Not until after the Breach. But this – reaching another _reality_? It was never meant for this.”

“Then what - ?” Rellana licked her lips, looking between the amulet and Dorian’s face, her eyes large. “What was it meant for?”

“Why, time travel, of course,” Dorian said, and tossed it back her way. Rellana blanched as she struggled to catch it. “It’s quite useless as it is now, unfortunately.”

“Time - ? You can’t be serious!”

“It brought me here, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” Rellana said, “But…”

Pavus sat back, crossing his arms over his chest, frowning. “Alexius used this very amulet to send my Inquisitor and myself forward in time, to a future where Corypheus had won and the Inquisition – the very _world_ – lay in tatters.” His smile was grim, humorless. “An excellent bonding experience for two virtual strangers, certainly, but pleasant, no. I can’t imagine what caused it to malfunction in such a way.”

“Do you think you can repair it?” Rellana asked.

Pavus was silent, watching her for a long moment before answering. “I’m damned well going to try.”

\--

Solas was silent for a long while after they’d dismissed Pavus to take up residence in the rooms his alternate self had occupied. Rellana sat back in her chair, watching his profile in the firelight and struggling with the very real excitement. They had spent the better part of the night quizzing Pavus on everything he knew of the mysterious device – materials used, methods, tests – and his previous experience watching it in use. He had worked with it before, tweaking it on a moment’s notice to get himself and his Inquisitor back to the correct time, Corypheus and his armies hot on their heels and –

It gave Rellana a thrill just to consider.

When Solas finally did break the silence, he did so without glancing her way, an enigmatic smile tugging at his lips. “You’re thinking about Arlathan,” he said softly.

“You’re not?” Rellana asked. She wanted to dance. She might have, too, were she not quite sure doing so would only result in the other elf looking at her as if she were a child. “We could save it. We could – there are so many things we could do. With the Inquisition’s resources…”

“He said that his mentor was incapable of travelling to a time prior to the conclave’s explosion,” Solas pointed out.

“He didn’t have _you_ ,” Rellana countered.

Solas jerked, looking at her in alarm. “What do you mean?”

“You know more about magic than any Keeper I’ve ever met. Certainly more than _mine_. I refuse to believe you know less than some Tevinter shem. He couldn’t figure it out – but you could. I’m sure of it.”

She watched his shoulders soften, his soft clever smile return, and Rellana couldn’t help but feel warmed.

“Perhaps there’s hope,” Solas allowed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive any butchering of Solas. This fic is so hard to write. Man.


	5. The Grounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there's been such a long delay, everyone. Life has gotten very busy and very, very stressful, but I promise, I haven't forgotten about this!

Stepping out into Skyhold proved to be an uneasy experience.

The place had become a home to Dorian, after all, and seeing a place that was _like_ one’s home without actually _being_ such a place was…unsettling.

There was no trace of Ryn.

There wouldn’t be, of course. Ryn was not part of the Inquisition. Rellana had said when she left her clan for the Conclave he had still been there “as dull and strange and superior as ever.” Dorian had often wondered about his lover’s humble, simple life before the Inquisition, but it was odd to think that he was there now, so far away, barefoot and herding halla, hunting druffalo, with his stunning eyes and beautiful soft smile. It was odd to turn a corner and not find him lying in wait with an impish grin and wicked fingers, ready to pull him into an alcove or convenient closet…

Dorian didn’t recognize any of the soldiers in the army. Even most of the servants were strangers. Those he greeted tended to curl their lips, look at him with hostility and suspicion. He was once again what he had struggled for so long to prove himself otherwise – nothing more than the unwanted dirty Vint magister come to stain the Inquisition.

Considering what had been said of his predecessor, Dorian supposed it made a sort of sense.

Ryn’s medics and their tents were gone from the yard, replaced by row upon row of training dummies. His mage tower, painstakingly restored for the benefit of his mage allies, was here a barracks for Templars. The gardens had become pretty, useless, decorative affairs without a single culinary or medicinal herb.

Skyhold felt…soulless.

Dorian could find no trace of Sera or Cole. The other members of the Inquisition were suspicious, if not blatantly rude, when greeted. Varric and the Iron Bull were the closest to friendly in the bunch, the former patently unhappy, drinking, and reflective, the latter very nearly his usual self, if far more aggressively flirtatious.

“You have been wandering the grounds like a lost pup all morning,” Solas said, falling into step beside him as he made his third circle around the familiar grounds. “It is truly a terrible thing to wake from slumber to find your world not as you left it.”

“Terrible? From an academic view it’s positively fascinating,” Dorian kept his voice cheerful. It was an act whose rules he found himself well acquainted with. He paused, leaning upon a fence post to watch the army begin their drills, Cullen’s voice ringing through the yard.

“I imagine it could be,” Solas allowed, slowing to a stop as well, though he kept his distance.

Dorian gestured. “This army, for instance. Much larger than it is back home.” Home. Ryn. He shook his head. No point in worry when he was still working out what needed to be done to rectify the situation. For now he was powerless to act.

“Your Inquisition likely has different goals than our own, I suppose. We could spend an eternity comparing notes, if we liked.”

“I suppose,” Dorian agreed.

“But it is a surprise,” Solas said. “Finding you out here and not within the confines of the library. I was under the impression you were eager to return home.”

“Fresh air and brooding is an invigorating combination.”

“I see.” Solas frowned, watching him. “I suppose I must have been mistaken. You were rather more eager to work, yesterday.”

Dorian made a noncommittal sound. “I can think just as well out here as inside,” he said after a moment, frowning, tense. Even his room was different. Empty. Sparse. The Dorian of this world had found no home within Skyhold’s walls.

“I truly hope you are correct in your assessment. The clock is ticking on your beloved’s fate. Every moment you waste here could become that very moment wherein he breathes his last.”

“…I never called him my beloved,” Dorian said.

“A casual observation based upon your behavior yesterday,” Solas said.

Dorian didn’t have an answer for that. He drew the amulet from his pocket, watching it catch and reflect the morning light. The crack that marred its surface seemed to catch and twist that light, bouncing it back the wrong way.

He had been up until the wee hours of the morning working with it, truth be known. Prying and poking at the problem until his vision was blurred and his hands trembling, and when he’d finally lain himself down to rest nightmares had chased him quickly from slumber. He felt stiff and sore and sickly this morning.

“I begin to rue the day I first laid eyes on Alexius,” he said, and didn’t entirely mean it, but wanted, instead, very much to be home.

“Yes, well, your case would be more hopeless still had you not, I think,” Solas said. He sounded irritated, and didn’t remain much longer.

When Cullen broke the soldiers for a rest, Dorian moved to intercept his friend as the blonde made his way back to his office.

Everything here was different – Dorian had no cause to assume his friend would still be his friend here – but Cullen had often proven a reliable sounding board for ideas. He’d frequently listened to Dorian fret over Ryn: was the Inquisitor truly interested? Was he getting enough food? Enough rest? Was he putting himself in undue danger? Leaving himself open to betrayal? Dorian would come to him even when it came to matters of tricky spellwork – though Cullen himself had no magical talent himself, he had spent years studying mages and had more than once been able to offer useful suggestions when Dorian got himself stuck. At worst he would listen in silence until Dorian talked himself ‘round to where he needed to be.

Still it was alarming, the cool cordiality in his friend’s voice – as if they barely knew each other at all. “You had best take care, loitering around here,” Cullen advised. “You’re libel to find a knife in your back if you don’t watch.”

“Pardon?”

Cullen held his office door open, waiting for Dorian to enter before him, as if Dorian was not a visiting friend but someone with an appointment.

“There are too many soldiers who would be only too happy to curry favor with the Inquisitor by finishing what was started yesterday,” Cullen explained as he passed, and motioned Dorian to a chair. “Frankly, I’m amazed to see you. I don’t know what you did to stave off Inquisitor Lavellan’s execution order, but I doubt it will stand for long.

Dorian sat, and as he watched the former Templar circle ‘round the desk to take his on chair, it occurred to him for the first time that the truth of whatever it was that had happened had not been spread around.

Cullen did not know Dorian was not the man he knew.

“For the life of me,” Cullen said. “I do not understand why you haven’t taken the opportunity to run while you can.”

“I’m afraid this whole ordeal has had a poor effect on my memory,” Dorian said on some mad whim. “What exactly happened out there?”

“No one is sure. The Inquisitor’s mark reacted badly with something.”

“No, but…I heard I tried to kill the Inquisitor.”

Cullen made an uncharacteristically rude snorting noise, then stared when Dorian failed to reveal the joke. “You? Kill the Inquisitor?”

“That is what I was told.”

“Mock her hair, belittle her application of face paints, I would believe – but outright murder?”

“I am the evil Tevinter snake,” Dorian said with what he hoped was a light laugh, spreading his hands.

Cullen’s gaze was steady. “No,” he said firmly. “Absolutely not. You have honor, Dorian, even if you do try your damndest to keep anyone from noticing it.”

“Why, commander, I’m flattered. I had no idea you felt that way.”

The tips of his ears reddened and he glared. “None of that now,” he said. “I am committed to supporting the Inquisitor – wherever that leads, But I will not allow an innocent man to be executed in the yard without a trial. That is all.”

“It sounds as if it was a dire situation, indeed.”

“It’s worrying that you’ve forgotten it.” Cullen leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. He looked at Dorian the same way any man about to offer unsolicited advice to a stranger would. “You need to get out, Dorian. Don’t pack anything, don’t say any goodbyes, don’t stop to trade one last witty insult with Rellana. I’ll get you the guard schedule...”

“Whatever my little tiff with Rellana, it’s settled now,” Dorian said. “Surely she didn’t mean any real harm.”

“Oh, she meant it,” Cullen said darkly. “I’ve given my loyalty to this cause and I will not forsake it. That doesn’t mean I’ve gone blind to what it is we have created here.”

“It isn’t as bad as all that, surely.”

Cullen didn’t answer.

Dorian blew out his breath, slowly. “I can’t leave,” he said.

“I know – you want to help see Corypheus defeated. But she will never let you have a hand in it. You’re better off as far from here as possible.”

“The Inquisitor has given me a…a project, if you will. I can’t leave before it’s completed.”

Cullen stared at him, stone-faced, for several long moments. “Maker’s breath, Dorian,” he swore at last. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”


	6. Rain

“I feel distinctly as if it were mocking me.”

“To be fair, you do prove easy prey for mockery.”

Dorian tore his eyes from the sarcastic glint of Alexius’s broken amulet to level an unamused glare at the elf riding beside him. The powerful gleam of the sun reflecting off Solas’s bald pate did no favors for his brewing headache.

Back in his world, upon the Inquisition’s return from Redcliff, Dorian had made a thorough examination of all of Alexius’s papers and notes. It had caught him, bothered him – he hadn’t been able to rest until he found what it was Alexius had discovered that finally made their old experiments work. The breach had been instrumental, of course, but the calculations, the formulas –

And, now that it mattered, he found it a struggle to remember any of it.

“When we stop to make camp for the night I will want to check you again,” Solas said, without any indication he even noticed the other mage’s ire.

“Your new preoccupation for studying my body, while unsurprising, is utterly unnerving.”

The elf scowled. “It is hardly my concern that you lack the capacity to understand your predicament,” he said. “You are here, out of sequence with your rightful reality. Thus far I have succeeded in bending the Fade around you, fooling it into accepting your presence here. But should that magic become corrupted -!”

“Yes, yes, darkness and gloom, the Fade ripping me to little bitty pieces from the inside out.”

“You and all of reality with you.”

“What a cheery, cheery man you are, Solas.”

“You jest, and yet the fact you are still having these dreams tells me you remain in great peril. The longer you take to repair the amulet, the greater the danger becomes – not merely for you, but your ‘ _amatus_ ’ as well.”

Dorian cringed a little at the sound of that word falling from the elf’s lips. A private detail gleaned from the watch Solas was keeping on his dreams and one which, he found, he would have preferred to keep quiet. Solas had no way of knowing, of course, what it meant to Dorian, calling Ryn that, but still there was a way the other mage referenced it that made him feel as if he were back in Tevinter, dodging the conversations of political piranhas.

“I guarantee that there is nothing in this world I want so much as to be at his side once more,” he said at last.

“A shallow desire, to let your want of another rule you,” Solas said, but his eyes strayed toward Rellana and he lost his smug smile.

They made a long, slow train, the Inquisition’s forces making their way to Halamshiral. Most of the carts seemed to be filled with Rellana’s wardrobe changes for the party. There was also a truly obscene number of servants in attendance.

Dorian had written ahead and requested, in the most humble and flattering language, for permission to use the libraries at the Winter Palace for the duration of the Inquisition’s visit, and it had been granted for all but the night of the party itself. Rellana had not Ryn’s enthusiasm for reading, and Skyhold’s offerings in this world were not quite up to Dorian’s standards or needs. He had high hopes of finding something that would strike his inspiration.

He wanted to go home – but there was a question that tugged at his mind whenever he set to applying himself to the problem. Dorian had questioned everyone who would talk to him in Skyhold.

Rellana and Solas had lied about the incident in the yard. While the tales Dorian was told concerning the incident varied, one fact remained true across the board – Dorian, as far as anyone could determine, had not tried to kill Rellana.

The fact Ryn might not be in danger of assassination (or, rather, might not be in any _more_ danger than usual) was a relief, even if the knowledge did nothing to ease the intensity of his desire to find himself back where he belonged, but it did raise the question –

_Why had they lied?_

The Orlesian countryside was quiet as they passed through it, the weather as fair as it ever got in the south and the air fragrant with wildflowers. The horse Dorian had been given, big and docile, followed the line with little direction necessary, leaving the mage time to review his notes as he rode, double checking equations against what he could remember from his former mentor’s papers. The work of Alexius’s lifetime, in a world where the man was more than a year dead.

But this was not the time to reflect on the fragility of life or the surprisingly fickle whims of fate. _Choice_ – that was the key. Clan Lavellan had chosen to keep Ryn within their ranks in this world, sending Rellana in his stead. Rellana had chosen to ally herself with the Templars, leaving the mages in Redcliff to fend for themselves. Thus was the life of one magister Gereon Alexius laid forfeit.

“She wanted the chance to ally herself with nobility,” Cullen had told him of the decision when Dorian oh, so casually brought up the oddity of a Dalish apostate choosing to side with Templars. “You know our Inquisitor. If it sounds important, she wants a hand in it.” He’d chuckled, but hadn’t seemed to find it funny.

The thought took Dorian’s mind off his problem for a time, and he was surprised, sometime later, when he realized Rellana had called for a halt.

It was still early yet, but the sky had begun to darken, growing heavy with the threat of rain.

“I refuse to arrive at the Winter Palace looking like a drowned rat!” Rellana said, when someone made the suggestion that they could easily reach their destination by nightfall if they pressed on. She rode at the head of the column, with Vivienne and, sometimes, Solas – when he wasn’t otherwise occupied pestering Dorian. When the elven hobo saw fit to join his Inquisitor, he and Vivienne seemed mutually content to ignore one another.

Dorian found he rather missed the cheerful taunting he had grown accustomed to.

He had received enough curious looks earlier in the journey that Dorian did not now offer to help unload and pitch the (ridiculously ornate, even by his standards) tents, though doubtless his magic would have been a help. It was pointless to think of Ryn, how he would have rolled up his sleeves and jumped down to lend a hand, no matter how Josephine sighed and scolded, but Dorian found himself thinking of him anyway.

“Look at them, poking around,” Rellana’s voice and laugh drew Dorian from his thoughts. She still sat aside her pretty white gelding, Vivienne at her side. “If they don’t get those tents up before the rain, I shall be sorely cross – oh, Dorian!” catching his eye, she waved him over, ignoring the raised eyebrow and quizzical look Vivienne shot her way regarding what was, evidently, a very uncharacteristic display. Rellana said something Dorian did not hear, and the other mage moved away as he approached.

“How do you find the journey?” Rellana asked. She looked quite pretty, cheeks flushed and red from the wind, the dark curls of her hair tousled about her doll-like face. Before he could answer, she added. “Tell me you’ve made some progress. I have been so worried this entire time.”

“I have some theories,” Dorian answered, and something cautious in him stopped him from explaining further. She didn’t seem to notice.

“Is it true, the phrase you humans have – _fashionably late_?” Rellana asked.

“Is that why we’re stopped, then?” they were already two days behind their expected arrival, the sheer size of Rellana’s entourage slowing them down. “I suppose we will cause a bit of a stir when we arrive. And Orlesians do love their drama.”

“I hate travelling in the rain,” she said. “My clan, they would always press on, unless a storm were truly bad. Then you finally stop and you have to try to sleep with your hair soaked through and the aravel smelling of wet socks,” she made a face, and Dorian laughed.

“Ryn has mentioned something to that regard,” he said. She frowned.

“Oh, Ryn again,” she huffed. “Yes, the hunters loved it. It would get them riled up – they’d make quite the mess of themselves, trying to jump in puddles hard enough to splash their fellows,” she wrinkled her nose and reached up, pushing back her curls. “I’ll take civilization over that any day, thank you.”

He couldn’t help but notice the soft green glow that briefly lit her face, or the crack that filled the air as the anchor responded to – something.

“There is a Rift nearby?” Dorian asked, standing in his stirrups and looking around, as if he would be able to see it from here. There were no immediate signs, but the rolling nature of the countryside around them meant that it would be easy to miss.

“Oh,” she said, “It’s been doing that for the last mile. It’s not far now, I think.” Rellana tugged a glove over the offending hand and sighed, watching the workers. “I do wish they’d hurry.”

“You aren’t…?” Dorian stared at her. “You’re going to go close it, aren’t you?”

“It’s about to rain,” she pointed out.

“Yes,” Dorian drawled slowly, staring at her. “But there is a hole in the sky. Literally, demons. Pouring out by the dozens, wreaking havoc, Maker know where – and you’re worried about…rain?”

She looked around. “It’s all farmland out here,” she said. “It isn’t going to hurt anyone.”

“Except maybe the farmers,” he ground out.

She opened her mouth, then closed it, staring at him. There was a decidedly unfriendly look about her in that moment, one that seemed generally to be hidden behind that doll-like visage. Dorian scanned the countryside again, and this time saw it, the tell-tale flash of green some ways away. Dorian put Alexius’s amulet around his shoulders and tucked it into his clothes, then gathered up his reigns.

His horse reared as he turned it abruptly, the gentle animal utterly shocked to find itself suddenly pushed into motion, running, ground-eating strides tearing up the countryside as he rushed to the hill where he had seen that flash of green.

Behind him he could hear the frustration in Rellana’s voice as she called for the others to rally and began to follow.

 


	7. The Winter Palace

“Make haste, you fool! The Herald of Andraste has been injured!”

It was late when they arrived, exhausted and soaked, at the Winter Palace, and the flurry of activity was immediate. Dorian had heard the order from Rellana to send servants and runners ahead. When they arrived, their path was strewn with flower petals and lined with adoring commoners waiting for a glimpse of the herald. There were weeping young men, and women holding up newborn babes in supplication, and – though Dorian suspected that a great many of them had been paid to act so ridiculously – it was all very impressive and suitably dramatic.

Rellana had vanished into a cart for a time after the battle, emerging with curled hair, wearing a saintly white gown, and using a spell to keep the rain from her. She rode at the head of the party once again, looking sufficiently meek and holy.

When they reached their destination, a pair of worshipful guards helped Rellana down from her horse. She had already achieved her theatrical entrance, but the show, it seemed, was not quite done. After a brave show of protesting that she was _fine_ , Rellana performed the most delicate of faints Dorian had ever had the privilege to witness.

She had sprained her ankle.

 _After_ the fight.

“We need healers!” someone bellowed as the crowd ushered their _unconscious_ herald inside. “Andraste have mercy – _please_ , Herald, _try_ to hold on!!”

Beside him, someone snorted loudly, drawing Dorian’s attention from the entertainment.

“I suppose I should give the Inquisitor credit,” Cassandra said grudgingly. “She certainly knows how to move an audience.”

“I’m terribly put out,” Dorian murmured with a sniff. “All this time, _I_ have been planning to faint at the doors. Whatever shall I do _now_?”

Cassandra snorted again. “Funny,” she said, then looked at him, surprised and vaguely accusatory. “ _You_ were funny.”

“Well, you needn’t seem sound so shocked!”

“You…are different,” she said, watching him, her expression suspicious. It only lasted a moment before her eyes trailed back to the gaggle of fools around the Inquisitor. “It was good, what you did,” she said.

“I am an incredible person,” Dorian said. “I’m afraid you will have to be more specific.”

She rolled her eyes and grunted in disgust, but a smile played at her stern mouth. “By insisting we deal with the Rift immediately – there is no telling how much damage you averted.”

“Ah, we tend to be a bit more _proactive_ where I’m from,” Dorian said, without thinking.

Cassandra merely looked at him. “Evidently,” she said, her voice flat, dark. She shook her head. “I was not certain you should be included in this venture,” she confessed after a moment. “Now, I find I am grateful we have you along.”

“I’m touched. Truly.”

“Sometimes,” her voice grew soft, eyes trailing, once again, to the Inquisitor. “I wonder what the Maker’s plan is, sending someone like…what it is he sees, that I cannot.”

“You would think the Maker could find someone more suitable, wouldn’t you?” Dorian muttered.

“Yes, well…” Cassandra gave her head a shake and fixed a brief, disapproving look on Dorian. “It is not our place to question the Maker’s will.”

\--

A steady hand a a few careful drops of lyrium – the mixture in the smooth marble bowl hissed and bubbled and almost seemed to flinch away from the glowing blue liquid. Dorian stood back, and handkerchief covering his mouth and nose as he watched the concoction sizzle and fizz.

“Progress at last?”

The sound, sudden and unexpected as it was, made Dorian jerk, knocking the table.

 _“Kaffas!_ ” he cursed, teeth clenched, watching helplessly as the bowl wobbled and tilted, spilling out a measure of the concoction. The concoction, in turn, seemed for a moment ready to last like a striking snake before cheerfully eating into the surface of the table.

Rellana lifted her brows.

“No,” Dorian said at last. He was careful not to touch any of the spillage as he used the butt of a pen to ease the bowl away from the table’s edge. “I’m not certain _progress_ is the correct word at all.”

“You certainly _look_ as if you’re doing something more useful than the usual sitting around on your ass, mooning over _Ryn_ , of all people,” Rellana’s voice was light. She laughed, as if they were friends cutting up, but he didn’t like the way she rolled her eyes at the notion of the other Inquisitor in Dorian’s rightful world. He stared at her a long moment, felt a flash of inexplicable dislike in the face of her cheerful, friendly smile.

“Oh, but it is a pleasant surprise to see you up on your feet after your _grievous_ injury,” he said, when he could trust himself to speak.

Rellana’s posture shifted, her smile falling away. Her tongue darted out, licking pink lips, before she winced and hissed and, as if in a great deal of pain, limped her way to a stool.

“One must try to be brave,” she said. “For the sake of my followers.”

“But of course,” Dorian said, turning back to his notes.

“I’m pleased to see you’ve made use of the library access I acquired for you,” she said, reaching down to rub at her ankle. “Surely there’s no excuse for a lack of progress _now_?”

“The calculations must be very specific. The error rate is too high to risk even the smallest test before I am sure,” Dorian said, shuffling the papers, casually covering up the most sensitive of the formulas he was working with. “If I act too quickly I risk irreparable damage to the mechanism.” He barely managed to bite down on adding, _but I cannot begin to fathom why I should bother explaining it to you._ She was helping. She wanted to get him home as much as he did. Rellana’s inconsistencies, her dramatics, her lies – they were not his concern. He could not sabotage his only hope of seeing Ryn again just because he was finding that he didn’t actually _like_ this Inquisitor very much.

The battle at the Rift had been illuminating, to say the least. As a mage, Rellana was clever and talented – but she was also lazy. She cut corners in her spellwork, sacrificed substance for flash. Back with clan Lavellan it was likely that the Keeper had managed to exercise a restraining hand, but now –

He reminded himself to cool his growing irritation. Her performance had been less than impressive, but he was unfairly comparing to others.

Still, he felt jealous of what little information he had already been able to piece together for the amulet’s repair, inexplicably wary of sharing more than absolutely necessary about the process.

“Perhaps I can help,” Rellana said, her eyes on his notes, and he turned them face down, turning back to her with a charming smile.

“I would not dream of imposing on the Inquisitor in such a manner,” he said. “Why – the rumors alone would be – well, suffice it to say, I’ve experience with how rumors fly around Skyhold. I doubt you would like it.”

She was silent, staring at him for a long moment before finally looking away. “I swear, it’s almost as if you don’t _want_ to go home,” she said. She shook her head. “My only hope is that by the time you’ve finished all this nonsense, there’s still something there for you to go home _to_.”

“My!” Dorian said. He laughed. “My dear lady, that almost sounded like a threat!”

“Oh!” she said, and joined in his laughter. “If I were to threaten you, Dorian Pavus, you would most certainly know it.”

“Well, as you do seem to lack flourish for subtlety, I must admit I am inclined to agree,” Dorian said, and they both laughed together again. Dorian wondered how Rellana could possibly survive a night of Orlesian politics unscathed.

And he thought of Ryn, as he had a dozen times today already, alone in the other world, likely busy preparing for the ball himself. Was this world’s Dorian there with him, at his side, guiding him as Dorian had intended to?

“Do try to keep Madame de Fer at your side tonight,” Dorian suggested after a moment, taking pity. He had already been informed that he himself was not to join the festivities, which was likely for the best, all things considered. “I am certain her advice will be invaluable.”

“Oh, I don’t need advice,” Rellana said, hopping off the stool without a sign of pain or discomfort. “I have a plan of my own.” She wiggled her fingers as she headed for the door. “Best get back to work, Pavus.”


	8. Halamshiral

“When he woke to find himself in Haven – no, don’t look at me like that, I want to be certain I’m telling you right, and you’re going to make me laugh, you damned Dwarf – when he woke up in Haven, Ryn told me he spent the day snooping around the place, stealing scraps of armor to disguise himself with, reading every bit of paper he could get his hands on, from shopping lists to dirty limericks to his own medical reports.” Dorian examined his glass of wine as he spoke, feeling only a little bleary and unstable as he remembered the naughty amusement in his lover’s face as he told the tale – the way those magnificent eyes would light up, the curve of a smile on those inviting lips, the artistic brown hand inching its way slowly up his thigh... As he recalled, he’d had difficulty listening, then, distracted by the Inquisitor’s…charms. “He tried to sneak out of Haven a total of six – no, no, it was definitely seven – times before finally resigning himself to his fate. By the time he went to see Cassandra, it was after nightfall.”

Varric’s laughter was full, and honest. “I can’t imagine the Seeker was happy with him.”

“No,” Dorian agreed. “Little wonder that.”

Through the open windows, they could hear the music from the ball downstairs. Somewhere down there, Rellana and her advisors, along with Solas, Cassandra, and Vivienne, would be making small talk with nobility, sipping champagne and nibbling despair-flavored cheeses and, most importantly, watching for potential assassins. To stop Corypheus’s plan, Celene must be protected, as Dorian understood, though with everything else that had been going on it was strange to remember the Breach and its ancient magister creator were still a danger.

Dorian had not been invited to attend the ball – presumably because his time should be better spent working on the amulet with which to send himself home but, in truth, he thought it likely Rellana did not want him there. He’d had little desire to attend in any case, but the amulet’s repair continued to vex him, and he’d found himself distracted, as usual, with worry for Ryn. Was he, even now, at the Winter Palace himself, in that other world, so far away from Dorian? Was Dorian’s counterpart offering him the guidance Dorian himself had planned to? Would they dance?

He’d been working in solitude for a fitful hour before a knock came at the door and Dorian, thinking it a servant with dinner, had risen without hesitation to answer it.

He’d been surprised to find Varric waiting for him. With Bianca.

“Don’t take this personally,” the Dwarf had said, loading a bolt into the chamber. “But I need answers, and I think you’re just the man to ask.”

He’d noticed, it seemed, the differences in Dorian’s behavior. The time spent in secret meetings with Rellana, the attention Solas was suddenly paying him, and Dorian – Dorian had found it strangely cathartic to tell him everything. They’d had dinner brought, and wine, and Dorian had been happy to answer any question Varric posed.

“Guy sounds like a real peach,” Varric said. He lifted his glass for a long drink, and Dorian could see the weight on him, the stress and sleeplessness and doubts and questions. Following Rellana did not seem to inspire the same confidence as her counterpart. “Can’t say I’m not a little bit jealous. I keep asking myself what I’m still doing here, but…I have to see this through.”

“Rellana is…somewhat less than you had hoped for, I take it.”

“I don’t know how I keep getting myself mixed up in this shit,” he said. “Hawke was a mean petty bastard, but I’d still rather be back in Kirkwall than helping this disaster unfold.”

“You…speak more fondly of him where I’m from.”

“Maybe he’s different too…she’s setting herself up to be a real world power, you know that, right? When all this is over, Rellana is still going to have the army, the influence…shit terrifies me.”

“Is it really so bad?”

“You haven’t been here,” Varric said. “There’s a reason the real you was on his way out. You can’t trust Rellana. You get that amulet fixed, you go home and be grateful for what you have.”

“I intend to,” Dorian said. “If I ever manage to get the spell right.”

“You thought about letting Dagna take a look at it?”

“Dagna?”

“Cute Dwarven girl in the Undercroft?”

“I know who she is, I just didn’t realize she was a part of the Inquisition in this world. What a marvelous suggestion.”

“Happy to help,” Varric said, then shook his head. He lifted his glass again, then peered into it with a frown. “Shit,” he said, “I’m running on empty and my mood is awful.”

Dorian lifted a wine bottle, but it, too, was empty. “Shall we create a scandal and call for more? _Inquisition scoundrels outdrink empress’s ball_? The gossips will be thrilled.”

“Tempting,” Varric chuckled, “But if things turn south and boss lady wants to call us in, I don’t want to be firing sloppy shots.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“I honestly didn’t know you had a sense of humor, Sparkler.”

“You think I’m joking?”

Varric chuckled, and shook his head. “You thought about how you’re going to hide it from her, when you get it fixed?”

“Hide it?”

“Sparkler. Please don’t tell me it hasn’t occurred to you, what a woman like Rellana could do with an amulet like that.”

“I doubt she has the creativity to do much,” Dorian said. “In any case, you can’t travel farther than the beginning of the Breach with it.”

“Does she know that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dorian said. “Alexius tried it, and he failed, every time.”

“Maybe Alexius just didn’t have enough juice.”

Dorian opened his mouth, but before he could answer, a scream shattered their quiet evening.

He was the first to his feet, while Varric swore and tried to get out of the chair and found himself just a little drunker than he’d expected to be. Dorian grabbed up his staff before swinging open the door – and nearly took a blade to the face, blocking it with a spell that came more instinctually than thoughtfully. The window across the hall was open, a woman in a mask and colorful garb crouched upon the sill. She tilted her head, regarding him, then at some signal he did not catch, fell away backward through the window.

“Looks like the party final started,” Varric said, shouldering Bianca and pushing past Dorian to peer down the hall. “Feel like a dance?”

\--

There were bodies.

Servants, those masked fellows, even demons at one point. The grass in portions of the garden was slick and dark with blood, and the doors to many of the more private areas of the palace had been thrown wide open, the places ransacked not-so-neatly.

Varric and Dorian, it seemed, were caught eternally two steps behind those they pursued.  Shouts, clang of steel, curl of magic, it was only just ahead in the shadows, just around the next corner, just in the next room – and whenever they arrived it was to find only more bodies, more blood, more tables knocked open and chests broken into.

“Shit,” Varric hissed eloquently, more than once. “Shit, shit, _everloving shit!_ ”

The gardens, the servants quarters, the kitchens, the libraries - even Celene’s own bedrooms. They stopped when a body still seemed to have breath, did what they could to keep them alive, whether that be finding help or a simple quick bandaging or even what little healing Dorian possessed, each time putting them farther and farther behind the others, until they were practically lost in the palace.

“Andraste’s ass, what is going on?” Varric was not happy with the turn of events, Bianca held, constantly, at the ready, his gaze intent on their surroundings.

A corridor led to a door that took them, unexpectedly, into the ballroom.

They were on an upper balcony, and as Dorian hurried forward, he caught himself upon the bunting-draped railing, scanning the crowd below to find – nothing. The musicians played, and the dancers bobbed and weaved across the floor. A fat noble tittered at too-young girls near a refreshment table. A ball like hundreds of others he had attended in his life, with no sign whatsoever that just outside the doors there were bodies, and blood, and demons.

“There,” Varric said, and pointed, and Dorian watched Rellana sweep in with the others. She looked fresh and pretty and smug in her ridiculously large ballgown, and if he hadn’t been looking for it he might have missed the smudged makeup, the staff in her hands, the tangle in her curls, or even the way Cassandra, entering behind her, held a slight limp and tried, without success, to hide her sword behind her back. Cullen rushed to the Inquisitor’s side as Vivienne and Solas entered behind her, and it seemed to Dorian, with eyes trained for the political intrigue of Tevinter, that there was an argument in progress, Cassandra gesturing, Cullen throwing up his hands.

“Let all gathered, attend!” the voice of the empress’s majordomo boomed as the musicians lowered the volume of their play and Rellana and Cassandra, heedless, continued to argue, hissing like two cats in an alley. “Her Imperial Majesty will now address the court!”

Dorian didn’t look away from the Inquisitor, squinting, trying to read lips at this distance.

“Sparkler,” Varric began, uneasy.

“ – consigned to the flames,” the empress was saying, her voice carrying, her manner well used to public speaking. Dorian wondered if he could use a spell to eavesdrop on Rellana – if she, or any wards about the ballroom, would notice. “Though darkness has closed in around us, even now there is light. We must _be_ that light! We must lead out people safely through these troubled times. _We_ must be their guiding star!”

As applause erupted around the ballroom, Varric jabbed Dorian in the ribs with the butt of his crossbow. “Something’s wrong,” he hissed, and when the mage finally tore his gaze from the Inquisitor, he motioned to Celene as she motioned for the Duchess to join her.

Dorian didn’t see the flash of the knife until it was buried deeply into the empress’s back.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's been so long between updates. I'm having trouble with pacing for this and don't want to give you something terrible, but it's not fair to leave you hanging either. 
> 
> Also, please note that this is not a statement on who I think *should* be chosen at the Winter Palace. The way the game presents it, saving Celene feels like the choice you're "supposed" to make, so that's what Ryn did, whereas Rellana...did the opposite. If you chose the same as Rellana I am not judging you. I know Celena is awful, lol.


	9. Epiphany

Broken glass crunched underfoot as Dorian entered the ballroom, confronted by the sightless eyes of guests and guards cut down in the chaos of Celene’s assassination. Some wore Inquisition insignia, and Dorian’s stomach churned. He had never been particularly squeamish, and yet now he found he couldn’t allow himself to look too close, afraid he might recognize someone whose life, in his world, might have been protected, held sacred by Ryn’s calloused hands.

Under Rellana, they were nothing but meat and blood.

The surviving party-goers were cheering, but Dorian couldn’t listen to Rellana’s speech, couldn’t watch Gaspard and Briala, puffed and proud with victory. Instead he watched the room, noted the loss on a guard’s face as she recognized a fallen friend, saw the trembling in a servant’s hands as he offered refreshments.

Like Dorian and Varric, Blackwall had not been invited to the festivities but had been drawn from his rooms by the commotion. Even from across the room, his distress was clear – the pronounced slump in his shoulders, the way his sword seemed to weigh too much. He was ashen.

“Surprised she didn’t name herself empress,” Varric said, checking the settings on Bianca. Dorian realized at once that not only was Rellana still talking, but that he couldn’t stand another moment of listening to her voice. It made his blood itch.

“Sparkler?” Varric asked, as he turned to walk away. Dorian didn’t answer.

Servants were still cleaning up the courtyard where they had fought the Grand Duchess. Even outside the air felt too tight, too close around his skin, like leather stitched too tight. Rellana had pitched a fit when Cassandra ended Florianne with a swing of her sword, denying her the public execution the Inquisitor had planned. The water in the fountains was pink.

Dorian walked, and didn’t know where he was going, only that he had to find somewhere where the eyes of the dead did not track his every move. The night was cool and clear, the stars above merciless.

He became aware, at some point, that he was not alone. He did not slow, even knowing how Varric’s short legs would struggle to keep up. He remembered the Dwarf’s words. Rellana was making herself a world power – tonight had not been about stopping Corypheus or stabilizing Orlais. It had been about positioning herself where it would benefit her the most.

Whereas Ryn would have done everything he could to spare as many lives as possible, would have taken each and every death to heart, Rellana, much like a magister in possession of more expendable slaves than moral fiber, had knowingly and deliberately made a sacrifice in the name of her own power.

Nearly tripping over a broken piece of paving stone that had been shattered by someone’s spell during the fighting, Dorian paused to pick it up. It was wide and flat and heavy, and the general length and width of his palm. He carried it with him, turning it over in his hands as he walked, searching for a quiet place untouched by the night’s violence. He tried not to think about home, about Ryn, but once started he found he couldn’t stop.

At Skyhold, Dagna would look over his notes and examine the amulet and together they would complete the repair. He would go home, swap with his doppelganger here, and in a few weeks he might even succeed in convincing himself that this had all been but an unpleasant dream.

If he tried, he could even see Ryn now, almost as clearly as if the elf stood before him. How he would smile, those pale lovely eyes alight with joy as he fit himself in Dorian’s arms, his body a hard little furnace, his lips like honey.

Ryn would be drawn and tired, of course. Too many long nights, too much time sacrificed for his Inquisition – because he was damned good at his job, because it mattered to him, because he wanted to help. He cared. Still, Dorian would insist – Ryn would take a few days off, and, in between their leisurely lovemaking and finally getting enough sleep, they would talk. Dorian would say all of the things he had been too much of a coward to say. He would move into Ryn’s quarters, and he would forget about this place, eventually.

And here, with its broken Inquisition and an Inquisitor who thought nothing of sacrificing for her own gain, Rellana and Solas would have Alexius’s amulet.

Dorian found a stone bench in an untouched corner of the garden, and he sat. Varric stopped when he caught up, watching, waiting. The air stirred their hair and their clothes, and carried with it the sharp, acrid scent of blood. Starlight caught against the amulet when Dorian drew it from his clothes, and he watched it, reflective and glittering, even with the crack that marred its surface.

“I’ve loved him,” Dorian said. “In a way in which I never imagined it possible to love another person.”

“Shit,” Varric said, but he didn’t try to stop him.

“I wish I’d have told him that,” Dorian said quietly.

Dorian laid the amulet on the bench beside him and fitted the piece of paving stone over it, and –

The first crack sounded like a heart breaking.

It was really quite a delicate thing. A few sparks rose up, a token resistance to the pressure he placed on the stone, but then it was broken. Dorian could feel the magic bleeding away as he lifted the hard pieces of shattered rock out of the setting and, slowly and deliberately, began to crush them to dust, one by one.

It was inhuman, the ache that filled his chest. An emptiness that was unlike any pain he’d felt before. The wind picked up the dust, scattering it, and soon even it was lost, the amulet’s setting warped and empty on the bench.

“Oh, sparkler,” Varric breathed, when it was done. His eyes were large. He came to sit beside him, offering him an awkward pat to the shoulder. Dorian picked up the amulet’s setting and tossed it into the bushes, then stared at his empty hands.

“He would have done the same thing,” Dorian said. “Likely much sooner than I, if I’m honest.” Alexius had had no luck travelling past the confines of the breach’s opening, but Rellana – if there was even a chance Rellana could succeed where his mentor had failed – it wasn’t his world. If he’d gone home, he’d never have to see the consequences. 

But he had seen Redcliff. He could guess.

“You did the right thing,” Varric said. “It was stupid as shit, but it was the right thing.”

“I won’t see him again,” Dorian said. He swallowed. Ryn was his every dream incarnate. The love he’d never thought he would actually find. He thought of his eyes, of his smile, the scent of his hair. He remembered the taste of his smile, the first night they made love. He'd never felt so happy in his life.

He wished he could have said goodbye.

“Rellena is going to go batshit,” Varric said.


	10. Secrecy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The remaining chapters are going to go by very fast, and I'm kind of worried about the pacing, but this is more for setting things up for the next fic than anything else, so I hope it's not too jarring.

It was after midnight when they met behind the inn stables. It was a clear night, cold, and Cullen gave a start when Dorian’s approach failed to prove as silent as the mage had intended. The former Templar eyed him warily for a moment, one hand straying toward the sword he still wore belted around his waist. It was only a moment – enough to expose his ragged nerves, before he settled back once more against the fence. Dorian continued forward into the dim circle of light.

“Easy,” Varric was saying, his hands outstretched. “We’re just talking tonight. No one has committed to anything.”

“I still would like to know what _she_ is doing here,” Cassandra said, jerking her chin toward Vivienne. The mage, perched atop a hay bale in a fine silk robe, lifted her sharp elegant chin, her eyes cool and lidded.

“Me, my dear?”

“You,” Cassandra said. “You are her…her _crony_.”

Vivienne laughed. Dorian felt ill, easing himself into the circle, tucking his hands under his arms to keep them warm. Every person here he considered a friend, even Blackwall, though the man would hate to hear such a thing, yet here, in this world, only suspicion and fear united them.

He clamped down hard on the comparisons.

“What is it we’re here for?” Dorian asked.

“Missing out on your beauty sleep?” Blackwall asked.

“I don’t sleep anymore,” Dorian said. “I find it terribly inconvenient, you see.”

“I invited him,” Varric said.

They were two days out from Halamshiral. Though even now Rellena still appeared flush and triumphant from her victory at the Winter Palace, the rest of the party had remained solemn and silent as they travelled.

Dorian had done his best to avoid them all. He was in mourning, and he wanted little more than to lock himself away with a few dozen bottles of wine for company, but he couldn’t. Not yet.

He didn’t know why he had decided to come to this meeting, save that Varric had asked.

“Corypheus,” Blackwall said, addressing the group as if Dorian no longer existed. “The Maker sent Rellana to defeat him – but, near as I can tell, the Maker said nothing about what to do with her once the darkspawn is gone.”

“Like it or not, she is our Herald,” Cassandra said.

“Darling,” Vivienne laughed. “Like it or not, when this is over, she’ll see the world burn.”

“Optimistic,” Varric mumbled.

Silence passed for a long moment. Cullen had his head down, his broad shoulders tense and his mouth a thin line when he said, “Do not tell me you are suggesting what I think you are.”

“Once we reach Skyhold, I’m leaving,” Blackwall said. “I can’t put my name to this any longer.”

“And?” Cullen asked. It was almost a dare.

Blackwall took a breath. “And I’ll begin recruiting,” he said. “An army if I need to. To fight the Inquisition, if I must.”

“You can’t - !”

The warden met Cullen glare-for-glare. “I can’t leave a monster like her at the head of the greatest military force in Thedas,” he said firmly.

Cullen was the first to drop his eyes.

“The Maker,” Cassandra’s voice was rough, hoarse. When Blackwall looked to her, his gaze grew gentle, fatherly. “The Maker sent her. We cannot know his way. She is Andraste’s…Andraste’s…”

“The Maker chose wrong,” Blackwall said gently.

“What are you asking us to do?” Cassandra asked.

Blackwall hung his head for a moment, examined his hands. His shoulders were heavy, but when he looked up, his expression was firm. “If I have men on the inside, lives can be spared.”

Cullen cursed quietly.

“I’m in,” Vivienne said, without a trace of hesitation. The expression she wore now was far and away from the woman who had laughed and chatted with Rellana so easily at the Winter Palace. All a part of the Game. Dorian knew she was better than that. He had hoped this world hadn’t ruined her.

“Me too,” Varric said, utterly serious. Dorian merely nodded.

Blackwall frowned when Cullen and Cassandra failed to speak. Neither would look his way.

“Think about it,” Blackwall said. “You don’t have to decide right now.”

“You’re asking us to betray the Maker’s plan,” Cullen said.

“Was it the Maker’s plan for you to begin to take lyrium again?” Cassandra asked, softly.

Cullen didn’t answer.

“You’ve a few days to decide, yet,” Blackwall said. “I understand if your convictions will not allow you to participate. All I ask is that you don’t interfere.”

They parted after that. Dorian took some time before heading in, letting the cool wind chill his skin. His rooms would be too warm, too tight, too lonely. He was expecting that.

What he was not expecting was to return, and find someone waiting for him.

“Good evening, Dorian,” Solas said. “Where is the amulet?”


	11. Ending

He hit the ground, hard, in the cell, and he had to laugh.

Fitting, he supposed, that this strange journey should end in the very place where it began.

Dorian scarcely remembered the rest of the journey back to Skyhold. It had gone quickly, in chains, bumped around in the darkness in the back of a cart, aching from hunger, and bruises, and loss.

It had been worth the beating the guards had given him to personally tell Rellana to go fuck herself, though. Oh, yes. For Varric’s prediction had proven absolutely and irrefutably true –

She hadn’t been happy about the amulet’s destruction.

Her first order of business upon returning to Skyhold had been to sit in judgement for his crimes. Thanks to Solas, Dorian’s memories of that were perfectly clear.

“Your execution is set for tomorrow,” Rellana proclaimed from atop her ornate throne, after giving him the chance to beg and finding, to her clear displeasure, that he held no such intention of doing so. The Great Hall, where Dorian had spent so many happy hours with Ryn and the others, had been filled with jeering spectators. “It will be a fitting opening act for my victory celebration,” Rellana told him with a pretty smile, and allowed her followers to throw their leftovers at him on his way out, cheering the coming death of the evil Vint traitor.

Just as well, Dorian thought. With the attention his farce of a trial garnered, Blackwall’s defection passed without notice. He couldn’t help but feel that he did at least one good thing, provided the warden succeeded in his goals. There was hope – not for Dorian, obviously, but for the Thedas of this world, and Dorian had, in a way, contributed.

“Last meal, Pavus,” one of the guards said, and tossed a plate of something brown and congealed into his cell. Dorian ignored it. His ribs felt broken. He rose from his knees with difficulty, instead stretching himself out on the filthy, stinking cot and folding his hands over his aching belly.

He had come to the Inquisition to help save the world. He would never know if he had made an impact. He certainly hadn’t expected it to end this way.

But when he closed his eyes, he didn’t think about the execution to come – kneeling in humiliation on the battlements as Rellana pranced and preened and incited her followers into an unholy fervor. It would take a long time to die. Rellana wanted to do it herself, and she could hardly lift the heavy headsman’s axe.

No, Dorian didn’t intend to spend his last night counting the hypothetical number of wild swings that would cut into his body before he breathed his last. Instead he wanted to think about Ryn, and the last moments they had shared.

Dorian thought about the sheets that had cradled their naked bodies. Cool and crisp, high thread count. Ryn’s skin was smooth and taut and sweeter than candy. The smell of the candles. The sound of his laugh. Those pale eyes, violet in the flicker of candlelight – he had been so excited when Dorian asked to stay the night through. What had Dorian been so afraid of? Why had he waited so long?

The cell was warmer than he’d expected, and there seemed to be an unexpected breeze coming from somewhere. Comforting, almost. Gentle. His ribs gave a twinge. He wondered –

Dorian felt a sudden violent surge of vertigo, and heard a rushing in his ears. He was falling, hands flailing out, grasping and finding nothing, dizzy spinning in his head, the world tilting, and –

His chest struck the ground, hard. Something like grass tickled his cheek.

Dorian opened his eyes. It was grass. There was no trace at all of the cold stone prison floor he knew all too well. Slowly, mindful of the dizziness that still bounced across his skull, he lifted his head.

Dorian didn’t know how to process what he saw, could not fathom how to even begin to understand it. For a moment he wondered if he was dead. If it was a trick of the Fade, he thought perhaps he was beyond caring.

When he had closed his eyes, he had been in one of Skyhold’s cells. Now, opening them, he found herself in her courtyard. More importantly –

More importantly, Ryn was kneeling in the grass before him, his face in the dirt, his arm outstretched before him, as if he had been reaching for someone. Hid entire body was raked with violent sobs, and Dorian, watching him, was not quite sure his heart remembered how to beat, his lungs how to breathe.

Dorian didn’t notice the clearing dust that yet hung in the air, the spectators gathered ‘round, or even the way certain areas of the ground seemed to have been uprooted, as if by some terrible force of violence. He barely noticed how his ribs twinged and ached as he moved, stretching, surging forward to clasp that outstretched hand, terrified that any moment he might wake and find it all gone.

Ryn’s whole body jerked at his touch. His head shot up. Dirt and tears only enhanced the wretched beauty of his face, and his eyes – oh, but his eyes were everything good in this world, or any other that had ever existed.

“ _Dorian_ ,” Ryn said.

He was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue to come.


	12. Epilogue

“I distinctly remember Madame de Fer giving instructions that you were to stay abed a week at the very least,” Ryn said, from somewhere behind him, and Dorian couldn’t help but to smile.

“I remember it as well,” Dorian said, leaning toward the mirror. “I had to give her two of my favorite rings in return for such a convenient ruling.”

“Is that how it went?”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that – I have beauty sleep to catch up on. Among other things.”

“Let me have that,” Ryn was a warm, solid presence at his side, one artistic, calloused brown hand extending in expectation of the razor’s etched silver hilt. Dorian eyed him, frowning.

“You don’t even know what to do with this,” he complained.

“Sit,” Ryn ordered, “Or I’ll make sure you leave here looking like an Orlesian show nug.”

“That’s assuming I ever deem leave here again.”

“ _Sit_ ,” Ryn said again.

“I’m not an invalid, you know,” Dorian complained, but he handed Ryn the razor and retreated to the chair at the Inquisitor’s desk. Ryn followed shortly, armed with a towel and the wash basin filled with warm water as well as the contested razor, and he made a rather cozy spectacle of himself, perching at the edge of the desk with his bare feet propped on either of the chair’s armrests and the mage between his thighs. A hand on Dorian’s chin guided the mage’s face as he examined the lather-covered planes of his cheeks.

“Why, _Inquisitor!_ ” Dorian said, and affected a scandalized tone, his fingertips ghosting, tracing the inseam of the elf’s soft faun trousers. “You will give a man ideas!”

“Will I now?” Ryn smiled,  and dropped his hand to Dorian’s. He gave it a momentary squeeze before reaching for and opening the razor. “Tilt your head.”

It seemed unreal, the warmth of the sun reflecting off the snow outside, the careful glide of the razor against his cheek, and Ryn’s eyes, so pure and so clear and so good, focused on his task as if he hadn’t another concern in the world. The pleasure of the moment was simple, and it was good, and Dorian had no doubt as to what it was worth.

There was a solemnity in Ryn’s eyes, and though Dorian was home, and safe, and happy, he knew there was something Ryn mourned – that he hadn’t been able to save every bit of him, that there were questions that lingered that he would never find answer to. He worried for the man he had sent away to retrieve his lover to his side, though they would never meet again. Dorian didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth, how hopeless the situation he had traded with that other self seemed to be, but Ryn seemed to know it, all the same.

“I love you,” Dorian said, as the elf twisted to rinse the razor. “I thought you might be interested in learning that little tidbit.”

Ryn was smiling as he turned back to him, the expression soft, almost shy, but pleased, too. “Oh,” he said. “I’ve known that all along.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a third fic eventually that should tie up what remains, but I don't yet have a timeline on when to expect it. Anyway, I have so much gratitude and love for everyone who stuck around through all this. I appreciate you so much.

**Author's Note:**

> Kaerwrites.tumblr.com
> 
> My tumblr is mostly FenHawke, but you can find some Dorian/Lavellan stuff there as well. More importantly, from time to time there will be drabbles that are not posted here. Look me up if you're interested.


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